


Insanity

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [26]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Insanity, M/M, Mania, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “I’m going to New York,” he replied impatiently. “Do you not listen?”“Sherlock, you’re ill,” Mycroft explained. I could hear what a strain it was to keep his voice level and low. “You are not thinking clearly.”“Nonsense,” he retorted. “John, tell him.”In Doctor Watson’s dispatch box of unpublished writing, there is a stack that appears to be a combination of papers he wrote at different times—some of them were written during a very dark time in his life with Sherlock Holmes, and others after the event. The doctor himself explains that he felt compelled to record some of his thoughts instantly, while he was experiencing this event, and the other portions he wrote later to flesh out the story. He then apparently carefully assembled them to tell a single, chronological tale. Because of this, it is apparent that he wrote the earlier pieces before he and the detective were being openly demonstrative towards one another, and the later ones after.The portions that he wrote during this heinous period are in pencil, which he explains, and those written later are in his familiar pen.





	

[This portion is written in pen; the author in him seemed unable to resist the urge to set up his story with a proper opening.]  
  
It has been some time since I wrote about this terrible period in our lives. I have all the bits I managed to put down whilst in the midst of it all, and I now intend to go back and fill in the missing pieces to the best of my ability. I will not, however, rewrite or revise any of my original notes—they speak so much to our conditions of both body and mind that I value their immediacy.  
  
Since that time, we have, of course, been guests in the very rooms which I describe here, but we all have deliberately not referenced our very first stay in them since that time, and indeed, Mycroft has had some things changed—there is different paper and curtains and other frippery, and now the electric lights—so the suite is quite different to my eyes.  
  
In fact, it is those changes that have spurred me to complete this bit of our history. We have just returned from a stay there, and despite my darling’s complaints of boredom, it was a generally successful and peaceful holiday. I feel quite refreshed and able to face my notes of that dark time which is—thankfully—now in our past.  
  
And of all things that now come to my mind is the fact that, when we were in our confinement, I was only permitted pencil, and so those pieces I wrote then are somewhat smudged. How I wish my memories were equally softened and obscured.  
  
*  
  
“Thank heavens you’re here!” I exclaimed as Mycroft strode energetically into our rooms. He tossed his dripping umbrella (it was a beastly day), coat, and hat in the general direction of our coat rack and, without having to ask, went straight into Sherlock’s bedroom. I was close on his heels.  
  
I had left him alone only long enough to open the door to his brother’s knock (I had locked it and slipped the key into my pocket), and he was still engaged in the activity that had caused me to send an urgent message to the elder brother.  
  
Sherlock was packing.  
  
He had a large case open on his bed, and was rather haphazardly pulling articles of clothing out of his wardrobe and dresser and placing them in it.  
  
“I cannot take it all, of course—I will be able to purchase new clothes in New York,” he murmured, balancing two folded shirts, one in each hand, and examining each closely. He dropped one into the case and dropped the other to the floor. He did not glance in our direction or indicate in any way whatsoever that he was aware of our presence.  
  
“No, you will not,” his brother stated in a low, firm voice.  
  
He glanced up then and smiled rather affectionately at us. “Mycroft!” he cried, as if unexpectedly meeting up with a dear friend after a long separation. “Have you come to see me off?”  
  
Mycroft’s calm façade faltered just the slightest bit. “No, Sherlock, I have not,” he stated, glancing at me and mouthing _How long?_  
  
 _This morning,_ I mouthed back. Both Holmes brothers were adept at reading lips in this fashion, and I had come a long way in developing my own skills at it, beginning with my need to sometimes capture the final words of a wounded soldier, so weak that audible speech was impossible for him.  
  
The government man’s eyes widened slightly. “So suddenly?” he asked, _sotto voce,_ as we watched his brother choose one of his newest nightshirts.  
  
“He did not sleep last night,” I added in a similar tone.  
  
It alarmed me that Sherlock had not reacted to his brother’s words. He had apparently lost interest in our presence and was not listening to our exchange at all. He continued his activity, mumbling something to himself about hats. “I suppose Mrs. Hudson could have the rest of my things sent, couldn’t she, after I send my new address,” he mused. “I should like some of my books.”  
  
“Sherlock,” his brother said, keeping his voice calm, “where are you going?”  
  
“Oh! Didn’t John tell you? I’m moving to New York. London is so dull these days, but New York is positively teeming with criminals. Some of the other cities are equally riddled, but New York has the best concerts. I suppose I shall stay in a hotel until I find lodgings—‘apartments’ is what they call them. American English is so very different; it will be engaging to learn the idioms in particular. I suppose I shall have make the acquaintance of the local constabulary—police force. And laboratory facilities because I can’t do all of my experiments in an apartment, can I? It will take some time to build up my equipment again. I don’t want any of my instruments shipped; they are so fragile so it’s best to purchase new you can buy practically anything in New York and they’ve got different food too that I will have to get used to do you think I’ll be treated differently because I’m English I hear that in New York being English is a perfectly respectable thing do they have clubs like in London—”  
  
“Enough,” Mycroft growled. “Sherlock, you are not going anywhere.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him as if he had just stated that the Sun goes around the Earth—no, that was a poor analogy—as if he had just told him that he could never have a lemon sponge for tea again. He frowned, not in anger, but in bafflement. “Of course I am,” he retorted.  
  
“You weren’t planning to go last week when I spoke to you.”  
  
“No, I wasn’t,” he agreed. “But this morning I realised that I was tired of kippers and it was raining and I’ve been reading about some absolutely fascinating organised criminal activity in the newspapers and there’s a _New York Times_ just like there’s a _London Times_ so even if it’s American I’ll be able to keep up on everything that’s happening but there’s rags as well and those are always so much more informative when it comes to the criminal class and I suppose I would like it if I had my commonplace books even though some of my other references will be quite useless because you know that they don’t have anything organised anyone can just make a great deal of money gold mining or somehow and then they’re in society and there’s no viscounts or dukes or anything like that at all so how do they know who’s related to whom and to what they are entitled and I don’t think they even have such a thing as entitlement because that’s got to do with titles and they don’t go for those things in America at all the only titles have to do with their jobs doctor or lawyer or political titles like senators didn’t they have senators in Rome how odd that such a young country would use such an old word—”  
  
“Sherlock, stop this at once.” Mycroft strode across the room and, without preamble, snatched the dressing gown that his brother held and rather emphatically threw it to the floor.  
  
Sherlock, momentarily shocked into silence, stared at it and then at his brother.  
  
“You are not going anywhere,” his brother re-stated.  
  
“I’m going to New York,” he replied impatiently. “Do you not _listen?_ ”  
  
“Sherlock, you’re ill,” Mycroft explained. I could hear what a strain it was to keep his voice level and low. “You are not thinking clearly.”  
  
“Nonsense,” he retorted. “John, tell him.”  
  
“Sherlock,” I began, my own voice hoarse with emotion, “your brother is correct. You are not at all well. You are confused and ill.”  
  
“That is preposterous. I’ve never felt better.”  
  
“John, if you would…”  
  
I took my cue and, as gently as I was able, took hold of my darling’s hands. “Sherlock,” I said calmly, “leave the packing for a bit and come tell us your plans.” I drew him to myself before turning him and, with my hands on his shoulders, directed him into the sitting room. He struggled a bit, looking longingly at his case over his shoulder, but his brother, following us directly, rather emphatically shut the bedroom door behind us.  
  
*  
  
Neither of us expected the younger man to sit. I knew from experience that he was, at the moment, absolutely incapable of doing so. It was best to let him pace and fidget and flit about the room when he was like this.  
  
It was equally impossible for him to keep to one topic; his ruminations took an increasingly convoluted path, and between that and the quickness of his speech—he had long ago abandoned full stops and now was losing the spaces between words—he was creating a labyrinth of images and topics that flowed into one another and turned around on themselves and went off on inexplicable tangents in a truly dizzying fashion.   
  
I am not entirely sure how he was breathing.  
  
His movements were equally distressing. In his wanderings, if a chair was in his way, he would sometimes step over rather than around it, or push it roughly out of his way. He would seize items from a table or shelf and examine them briefly, but as soon as he lost interest (which was immediately), instead of returning them to their places, he would drop them—not as one deliberately drops an item such as a boot that one has removed, but more as if he had become entirely unconscious that he was holding anything. It was fortunate that the objects he was selecting were for the most part unbreakable—the worst damage was a few crumpled pages of a book, and the pen he discarded rolled under the sofa and did not reappear until Mrs. Hudson cleaned.  
  
During this I mainly kept my eyes fixed on my friend, but sometimes I would glance at his brother who, like myself, was seated at the edge of his chair, ready to spring up and impede Sherlock’s rambling if it became necessary.  
  
Which it did. Sherlock’s eyes had alighted on the jack-knife that he used to affix correspondence to the mantel-piece (Mrs. Hudson has given up entirely on scolding him about it and instead is surreptitiously putting aside a bit of our rent every month to eventually have it replaced with cast iron) and he carelessly pulled it out, allowing the letters to fall to the hearth. Flipping it between his trembling hands, he resumed his perambulation.  
  
Mycroft rose and stood deliberately in his brother’s path.  
  
“Mycroft, move aside,” Sherlock ordered petulantly.  
  
“Give that to me,” he replied, indicating the knife.  
  
“No. It’s mine. Mother gave it to me after you went away to school.”  
  
“I’m not going to keep it,” the elder brother explained carefully, “but you seem a bit unsteady and I do not wish for you to injure yourself.”  
  
“I said, it’s mine!”  
  
I regret to this day that my reflexes were not the slightest bit faster, for although I realised what was coming, I could not reach them quickly enough to prevent it.  
  
Sherlock had swiped at his brother with the knife.  
  
Fortunately, due to the sturdiness of British cloth and the dullness of the misused blade, coupled with Sherlock’s unsure, jerky movements, he did not manage to do so much as remove a button. Mycroft made a noise that I can only describe as an exasperated sigh and without hesitation grasped Sherlock’s right wrist in his left hand and adroitly removed the weapon with his right. Without taking his eyes off his brother, he handed it to me, and I instantly closed it and dropped it into my coat pocket.  
  
“That is more than enough, I should think,” he murmured.  
  
“Mycroft! I’m so sorry. I did not mean to injure you. Truly I didn’t. It was just that the knife was there and so were you and… and…” His speech faltered and slowed for the first time all day.  
  
“And?” his brother prodded. He had, I noted, not released his grip on the thin wrist.  
  
“And… I don’t know why I did it.” I was mortified to watch as my friend’s head hung in shame.  
  
“Can you come sit down?” his brother suggested in a somewhat kinder tone. “Can you sit and talk to us for a while?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Can you try?”  
  
Sherlock nodded emphatically.  
  
*  
  
He did try. He managed to remain in his chair (on the edge of it, as we ourselves had been seated moments earlier) for nearly two minutes. Considering the state he was in, I took that as a true testament that he was trying to keep his word.  
  
“Sherlock,” I began hesitantly, “are you aware that you are making unwise decisions?”  
  
He looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?” he demanded.  
  
“I mean that deciding to move to New York for no apparent reason one morning is not normal.”  
  
He frowned, considering this. “But…” he offered tentatively, “people do _do_ those things, do they not?”  
  
“Sometimes, yes,” I agreed, “apparently so, but I think that in many of those cases it is not as sudden nor inexplicable a decision as it appears… or, if it is a sudden decision, it is usually predicated by extreme and unusual circumstances.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean that if someone commits a crime and escapes the country in the night to avoid persecution, that is usually done suddenly and without premeditation. If someone emigrates to make his fortune in the gold mines or the railroads, or whatever it is they do in America, they probably have thought about it at least a bit before striking out. What you have proposed is neither.”  
  
“It _was_ thought out!” he exclaimed, sounding like nothing more than a fussy child.  
  
“Oh? Did you consider any of the details?” Mycroft demanded.  
  
“What details?” he demanded suspiciously. His tone encouraged me; his brother had hit on a weakness.  
  
“Well, is there a ship leaving for New York today?”  
  
“I… I would have consulted the schedule,” he stammered.  
  
“Did you arrange to withdraw any funds?”  
  
“I… I was going to go to the bank.”  
  
“On a Sunday? Did you plan to convert your pounds to American dollars here or upon arrival?”  
  
“On… here…?”  
  
“And what did you intend to do about your responsibilities here at home?”  
  
He looked at us blankly and I interjected: “He means, Sherlock, did you intend to just walk away from your half of the responsibility for the rent? For our other household expenses? Did you think that I could afford to manage on my own—or to take another lodger in your place?”  
  
He frowned, obviously trying to consider all these complications.  
  
“How do you think Mrs. Hudson would feel, having a stranger move in here?” I continued.  
  
He shook his head, speechless.  
  
“And what would you do about letters of introduction, or anything like that? I know that a few of my stories about you have reached America, but surely you cannot think that you would find doors open to you just anywhere?”  
  
His head bowed down.  
  
I glanced at Mycroft uneasily, but he had his chin to his chest, seemingly in deep thought and assuredly in great anguish, so I plunged ahead with my strongest point. “Sherlock, did it not occur to you what it would do to me if you left?”  
  
“I… you… you would not come with me?” he asked weakly.  
  
“No, I would not. I cannot. You know that. I am a proud subject of our queen, and far too fond of home and hearth to ever leave England again for any length of time.”  
  
“But… you could…” he struggled. He was truly lost at this point—I hated to see him confounded as he was, but this was necessary if we were to break through the dense, poisonous fog clouding his brilliant mind.  
  
“Besides,” I added, reluctantly—looking at Mycroft again, “I would miss you so. You could not possibly leave me. I thought that you were my friend.”  
  
“I am!”  
  
“And yet you are perfectly willing to move half a world away from me?”  
  
“I… did not think…”  
  
“No,” I said sharply—for I was truly angry at this point, “you did not think. That is exactly the point that I am making. I do not believe that it is your fault, my dear friend, but what you are proposing to do has nothing whatsoever to do with ‘thought’. And the thought of you, so far away and alone, is deeply distressing. I cannot bear to consider it.”  
  
He looked at me thoughtfully. “You could not bear…?” he murmured, considering the idea.  
  
“No, I could not. You are very important to me. You helped me over the lingering effects of my injuries from the war. You have reminded me that I am a doctor—and a good one—even if it is because you abuse yourself so terribly that I am forced to treat you. You and your rather ridiculous activities have launched me on a new path. You are so very important to me—I truly could not bear losing you.”  
  
This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. “John, is that so? You would be upset if I left?” He sounded astounded.  
  
I considered my response. I felt that it was terribly important to use exactly the right words—the words that would have the greatest effect. “I would be heartbroken,” I told him, quite honestly. “I would miss you and worry about you dreadfully.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Oh, Sherlock. Wasn’t that what I had been trying to explain? “Because you are my closest friend,” I told him plainly. “I do not wish to see you move away to live in New York or anywhere else.”  
  
Then he was pacing again, and now was issuing a continuous litany of increasingly meaningless and undiscernible words, punctuated by the most disturbing laugh on occasion. He seemed to become completely unaware of our presence. Mycroft and I engaged in our own conversation whilst not looking at one another, but keeping our eyes fixed on him, and speaking over his endless monologue.  
  
“Has he ever experienced a mania of such intensity?” I enquired of his brother.  
  
“Several times, yes. This is the fourth that I know of definitively and I suspect there were a few incidents at a time when I was abroad.”  
  
“How long do these fits generally last?”  
  
“On average, ten days. Sherlock, come away from the window.”  
  
“Ten… he could be like this for ten days?” My head was spinning.  
  
“Or a week or a month. Sherlock, what are you doing?”  
  
He had been edging closer to his bedroom, clearly hoping to slip in and finish his packing. “Nothing!” he exclaimed guiltily.  
  
“Well, then come away from there.”   
  
As I am writing this in retrospect, I understand now that that was the moment when I realised that the elder man was addressing his brother, seven years his minor but certainly an adult, much as a father would address a very small, misbehaving child—because that was, to be honest, what he was doing. I can reflect now on how very odd and very sad for the government man—to have to become not just a father but a stern one to his own brother.  
  
“A _month?_ How are we to manage that? Sherlock, put my pipe back.”  
  
“I will have to make some arrangements,” Mycroft sighed, “but I can have him moved to a safe haven, with constant attendance and observation, until the fit passes.”  
  
“A safe haven?” I echoed stupidly. “What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean that there is a suite of rooms in my home that can be prepared as we deem necessary—and I can hire attendants to keep him safe day and night.”  
  
I paused, absorbing this information and turning it over in my head. “You’ve done this before,” I finally remarked.  
  
“Yes, of course. When he is afflicted in this manner, I see to it that he is safe whilst we wait for his eventual return to reason.”  
  
I found that I could not respond. I was torn. Part of me felt grateful that he had a brother who had the means and the decency to offer such an arrangement—while another part found itself resentful and jealous because it was clear that I could not offer my darling the safety and care he required.  
  
My thoughts must have been displayed on my face, as Mycroft, after observing me considering all of this information, suddenly burst out, “Oh, no! I do not mean to take him away from you. I believe that separating you from him would be extremely detrimental to the situation.”  
  
“Then what do you mean?” I demanded coldly.  
  
“Well, you are to come with him, of course.”  
  
*  
  
[The following is written in pencil during their interment in Mycroft’s home.]  
  
I am writing this whilst looking out onto Mycroft Holmes’ fairly extensive garden behind his impressive house. Sherlock has been terribly ill—he has been seized with one of his manias, but this fit has been like none I have witnessed before. His usual state is alarming. This has been terrifying. I sent for his brother this morning whilst preventing Sherlock from tossing some clothing into a bag and leaving—for New York. I actually locked the door to the corridor and hid the key away in my waistcoat pocket—he seemed that determined to simply put on his coat and hat and head for the train. His brother came immediately upon receipt of my urgent message and explained to me that this was not the first time he had been thus stricken.  
  
What Mycroft Holmes has proposed is this: In his house there is this suite of two adjoining rooms, with a dressing room in between (that boasts an immense bath with hot and cold taps—a glorious thing), that are considered Sherlock’s. What he had done previously and what he has done now was to order that they be stripped down to the bare minimum—all breakable objects to be removed—and Sherlock and I have moved into them. Mycroft’s servants and special attendants hired for the circumstances will be posted day and night out in the corridor or even in the rooms themselves if it is necessary—and they will quite simply watch Sherlock and prevent him from injuring himself or escaping.  
  
I will be with him as much as possible, but as the older man pointed out, I do have to occasionally sleep, and I also might find it oppressive and disheartening to have to be constantly vigilant. Also, as the elder brother expressed it, despite our devoted companionship, I am not responsible for Sherlock, and although he truly appreciates my role as his brother’s doctor and friend (which nearly made me blush), he cannot expect me to bear the entire burden of his family’s affliction.  
  
That Mycroft’s servants are of the most discreet natures possible is not even a question. “They do not question my orders, nor do they discuss them, nor any of my guests,” he proclaimed. “No one would dare breathe a word about my brother--and if anyone ever _did_ say anything inappropriate, they would not only find themselves without a position but without references and very possibly facing an appearance before a magistrate.”  
  
Whilst we were discussing this, Sherlock had entertained himself by apparently selecting a few books for his journey (he had muttered something about how dull the shipboard journey was unless there was a disappearance or murder or even a good theft to entertain him). However, his method of selecting the tomes was to remove each book from our crowded shelves, glance at it, then discard it as he had been discarding everything else. The pile around him was growing and he was clearly ignorant of any pain he had caused to his own (bare) feet whilst engaged in this activity. The regular thuds of the books as they fell and his still-constant speech was beginning to give me a headache.  
  
“Sherlock,” I finally interjected, “have you read my manuscript on your latest case? I wish for you to do so before I send it to my editor.” That was brilliant, if I do say so myself, as he quite obediently went straight to my desk and retrieved the neatly-stacked pages, and he actually did begin to read it. And even though as he was done with each page he simply allowed it to fall to the floor—and he was somehow pacing through the room without looking where he was going—he not only read it through but the endless torrent of words was finally reduced to muttered commentary on the story. Bliss.  
  
At that point I had looked back at Mycroft Holmes, who had once again fixed his gaze on his frenzied brother, temporarily and only somewhat calmed, and although he would deny it to his dying day, I do believe I noted the slightest glistening in his keen eyes.  
  
“You can ensure his safety?” I demanded.  
  
“Most assuredly. It might not always be… the kindest route, but he can be kept safe from himself whilst in this state.”  
  
I nodded. I did understand. “And I will be with him at all times?”  
  
“As much time as you can bear. I do not wish for you to become ill yourself, Doctor—and I do know how much care my brother will need.”  
  
That was all I needed to hear. “Sherlock, I’ve got some splendid news for you,” I called out. “I will be going with you after all.”  
  
*  
  
And so here we are—Mycroft had sent a message to his housekeeper to prepare the rooms that we are to inhabit for the next few weeks at the least—whilst I in a stroke of inspiration explained to Sherlock that he was not going anywhere on his own. I would be joining him. He was so very delighted that, quite disregarding the presence of his brother, he threw his arms around me before essentially dragging me to my bedroom to pack—and completely missing the fact that I had not actually specified that I would be going to New York with him.  
  
Mycroft assisted his brother in completing his own packing—he would get distracted so constantly, and change his mind about what he would take so often—that he couldn’t make any more progress.  
  
How would we manage him once we left Baker Street? I wondered silently as I rather firmly instructed Sherlock in the completion of his toilette (he had been, all day, in just trousers and an unfastened shirt and I do not doubt in the slightest that he would have left the house in just that state had I not intervened). He was very excited and pleased that I was going to be accompanying him. “I would have missed you dreadfully,” he confided to me. “I absolutely do not wish be away from you for even an instant.”  
  
“So you always planned on talking me into travelling with you?” I asked, despite the circumstances enjoying his playful enthusiasm. I was continuing to be extremely careful about not actually specifying to where I was intending to travel.  
  
“Well, yes, John. Of course.”  
  
I had to laugh at his earnestness.  
  
Sherlock apparently believed that his brother had come to “see us off” and so was perfectly amenable to all three of us getting into a brougham with our bags. I had, at one point, dashed down to explain to Mrs. Hudson what was occurring, so she saw us off, stating quite honestly that she would be delighted to take the opportunity to give our rooms a good cleaning and Sherlock of course objecting to disturbing his “dust index.” I had promised her that I would send regular letters.  
  
I would not swear to it, but I do believe her eyes rather filled up as she waved to us with her handkerchief from the door to 221.  
  
*  
  
[This short section was also apparently written later; it is in pen.]  
  
I truly cannot bring myself, even now, to describe all of what we experienced as Sherlock became aware that we most certainly were not headed for the train station.  
  
“Are you taking us directly to the ship?” he demanded. He had been bouncing and jigging about in the carriage, and more than once I could not prevent myself from laying a calming hand on his arm.   
  
“I am taking you where you need to go,” his brother cleverly demurred, and in his addled, childlike state, Sherlock accepted this assurance—for a bit.  
  
Then, unfortunately, even in his agitated state of mind, he began to truly assess the situation, peering keenly out the window at the streets. Finally, he looked around sharply and demanded of his brother: “This is not… where are you taking me?”  
  
After that, he became quite incoherent and his brother and I spent the remainder of the drive bodily preventing him from jettisoning himself from the carriage.  
  
Mycroft’s butler and two footmen greeted us at the door, and it took all three of them to get my darling into the house and into what would become our rooms.  
  
*  
  
[The following piece was written during their confinement; it is in pencil.]  
  
Locked in. We have been locked in for four days now. Sherlock is currently attempting, on my request, to have a bit of a lie-down. He has not, as far as I can determine, slept more than sixteen hours total since we arrived—and that does not include his sleepless night before we departed from Baker Street, and despite his protestations that he is not tired, his body clearly knows better. He trembles now as he has all along, but now it is not solely in agitation. It is with exhaustion.  
  
Persuading him to take in any sort of nourishment has been equally ineffective. At this point I do not care in the slightest what he eats—if he would only eat something. Sometimes he can be convinced to take some cake or a jelly—he does love his sweets. But anything proper and strengthening—a lovely roast pheasant such as what was brought up last night—he eschews.  
  
I am, every moment, grateful to our host. When we arrived, the rooms had been, as promised, stripped to the bare minimum—all breakables removed. However, there are books (those are deemed harmless for the most part unless he throws them) and pencils and writing paper (Mycroft explained that they have learned not to provide him with pens or ink). Everything is kept fresh and airy—the bedding is rather exquisite. Meals arrive punctually, delivered by one of the very serious young footmen; letters likewise (all from Mrs Hudson—one each day, in which she faithfully records any visitors and more mundane issues regarding the drains and whatnot—all of which Sherlock takes very seriously, sometimes re-reading a letter several times and then writing a very earnest if rambling response). There are always clean towels and shirts and stockings.  
  
And in all of this, there is Sherlock, and there is me.  
  
I am grateful for the—for lack of a better word—guards posted in the corridor at all times. Sometimes it is Mycroft’s own servants and sometimes it is strangers experienced in such illnesses. The windows are barred and the doors to the corridor locked. If he was more himself I would not put it past him to obtain egress regardless, but as he is now, he cannot gather his thoughts enough to muster the concentration required to pick the locks.  
  
My friend is very, very ill.  
  
I know that he does not sleep—well, he might manage three hours in a night—because I cannot bear the thought of him being even one room away from me, so we use one room as our sitting room and the other to which to retire. It is touching how hard he tries to rest with me. He seems more concerned that I sleep than himself—but when I do lie down he sometimes tries to emulate me. This is similar to his lesser attacks of mania, with which I became familiar shortly after joining him in our homely rooms. He obediently changes into nightclothes (he often becomes distracted whilst doing so and I have to prompt him to don his nightshirt otherwise he would be perfectly content to remain in his drawers or even as naked as the day he was born—he has never been a modest man). He attempts to enjoy the warm milk that I have requested be brought each evening for him at approximately ten o’clock. Sometimes he will sit for a bit whilst I read to him. These are all tricks I have already learnt, and I am grateful that they do sometimes still work.  
  
It is when he becomes so frenzied that he shouts the most horrible and obscene things and throws whatever he can put his hands on and tells me that I am a dullard and an idiot and a poor solider and a poorer doctor that I can admit here in my private papers that it does hurt quite cruelly. I know he does not truly mean a thing that he says—because in the same breath he claims that his brother is a lazy, fat thing and our dear Mrs. Hudson a meddlesome, interfering woman—things that I know he absolutely does not mean nor believe.  
  
Still, they do hurt.  
  
*  
  
We have breakfasted. Well, I have; Sherlock toyed with some toast and had some coffee, then pushed himself away from the table with an impatience that has become so familiar as to be commonplace these days. He is now involved in reading the newspapers Mycroft has had delivered to us. Well, he is attempting to read them. As so often happens now, he cannot concentrate on any piece for more than a few seconds. His eyes flit over and across; up and down—sometimes alighting on a headline and sometimes on an inconsequential detail such as the comparative quality of the paper on which each is printed. He rustles the pages and turns from one to another edition constantly.  
  
I must turn my attention away from him and focus on something else or he will drive me mad, and then won’t Mycroft have a handful?  
  
I have not yet recorded my observations of the attendants—those men hired specifically for the purpose of attending to Sherlock rather than his usual household servants. Most of them are extremely large, sturdy men who never speak a word that is not directly related to their tasks and who never have any expression on their faces but a surly sort of resignation. There are a few who seem to take a perverse pleasure in my friend’s suffering—I caught one taunting him when I had stepped away and returned unexpectedly. I reported this to Mycroft and have not laid eyes on him since.  
  
Oddly, there is one unlike the others; one who seems to have compassion for Sherlock. Instead of resignation or ire, his face reflects concern, and sorrow, and a calm that I greatly appreciate. His approach is quite different, as well. He asks after our well-being every day as if a friendly acquaintance rather than a keeper. He takes time to listen to my descriptions of my friend’s behaviour since he saw him last. He listens to Sherlock, even when he is spouting nonsense. As I do, he occasionally lays a calming hand on his arm or his back. When Sherlock is being particularly trying, he always attempts speaking to him first; before any physical restraint. It impresses me to no end, so a few days ago, I asked him, as politely as I could manage, why he differed so from the others.  
  
We were out in the corridor; I had wanted to give Sherlock some privacy for a bath. It seemed unlikely that he would get himself into any mischief bathing himself—but we kept the door open and ears pricked for sounds of distress.  
  
His name is Henry; his accent is something from the north. He stands upright but easily; never stiff. He is muscular but not as massive as some of the others; it brings to mind a Percheron as opposed to the Clydesdale draught-horses who otherwise attend us.  
  
After just those few days, I felt at ease with him—my life as well as Sherlock’s was essentially in his hands and by necessity privacy was a thing currently unknown. So, as we listened for anything alarming (and watched for a wet and bare Sherlock making an escape attempt; I certainly wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised), I asked him a bit about himself.  
  
He described, briefly, his upbringing. He was literate and intelligent and at one point had managed a rather large farming estate.  
  
“So, what brought you to London and your current position?” I demanded in some surprise. “It seems an unlikely change, if you don’t mind my saying so.”  
  
“It’s understandable, sir—it is a bit odd. It was my sister.” He paused and I encouraged him with a gesture to continue. “She married when she was eighteen and moved to London with her new husband, who had obtained a position with the railroad. A few years later, I began to receive the most troubling letters. We had always been avid correspondents, even when I was away at school, but when she was about twenty, they began to change. Make less and less sense. She thought her neighbour, whom I had been led to understand was quite pleasant, was trying to poison her. She thought the pictures in the church—the paintings and windows, I mean—were watching her.  
  
“I grew so apprehensive that I visited them, and seeing my poor sister—she was a changed woman, Doctor. She was so very ill. My poor brother-in-law—he knew there was something wrong but… well… I don’t rightly know why he didn’t get her to a doctor or at least write to me. Not that it would have helped. Poor thing was completely out of her head.”  
  
He paused and his sorrow was palpable. I shuddered in sympathy, thinking of my dear friend, whose body might have been separated from us by only one door, but whose mind was, at least at present, as distant as the stars. “Please, go on,” I said.  
  
“Oh… yes. We really had no choice, you see. She began to wander—I mean, she’d leave their home while he was working, and more often than not was brought home by a constable. Finally, she… oh, sir. It was horrible. She went to their church and she shattered the windows…”  
  
He stopped again and I simply waited, giving him a moment to collect himself. Finally, he continued. “So, you see, we had no choice. We brought her to one of those places—one of those places where they take folks like her. It was… we had to keep her safe, didn’t we? And she’s not a frail thing, sir—she is more like me than most woman would care for—oh, sir, I have never done such a hard thing. That place—I do understand that they need to be that way, but to see the poor wretches in their rags, lost and frightened and confused…”  
  
“Is your sister still there?”  
  
He sighed, the burden of Atlas on his shoulders. “Ah… no. My sister somehow got a hold of some… they think it was what they used to control the rats… she took her own life, sir.”  
  
“I am so sorry!” I burst out, and I meant it. What a horrible turn of events.  
  
“Thank you, sir. Most folks condemn her, but I knew my sister. I know that she is with the angels now, and that she is calm and content.”  
  
I could not respond to that; my throat was tight.  
  
His was as well; he cleared it before continuing. “So… you see… I could not return to the farm. I wanted to know more about the folks who suffered as my sister did. I wanted to see them treated better.”  
  
After that he gave me a brief description of his entry into the job, and how he had in his own time studied and inquired and read and even interviewed inmates, seeking better insight into their madness whilst attempting to simultaneously improve their circumstances and treatment.  
  
At that point Sherlock did indeed attempt an escape, and the rest of his story I must leave to surmise.  
  
*  
  
He truly injured himself last night. When they brought the supper he suddenly, with no warning, announced that he was departing for America—that very moment.  
  
He was utterly determined to strike out for New York. His thinking is so disordered that he did not have a bag or even any warm travelling clothes, but he seemed to believe himself prepared for the journey.   
  
I was in the next room tidying up—he tends to drop soiled clothing and towels to the floor, so I was gathering everything up to be taken away and washed (this is actually quite like home). The footman who entered was hampered by his heavy tray. He took both of us by surprise by announcing his intent and managing to get out into the corridor, where one of the attendants accosted him. It turned into a physical altercation. Ordinarily, with his deceptively wiry frame, he would have had the upper hand, but in his current state he does not have complete mastery of his limbs, and in the scuffle his wrist, elbow, and shoulder were twisted quite hard. The attendant was suitably apologetic, but I assured him that whatever force he had applied had been necessary.  
  
His own reaction has been disturbing. He now seems completely unaware of his injury even as it obviously impedes his movements. He was impatient with my examination, of course, and then began to act as if the incident had never occurred.  
  
For the first time it has occurred to me—he has left his violin behind.  
  
*  
  
[The following section is in pen.]  
  
Mycroft stretched in his chair—he was even taller than Sherlock and his legs seemed to go on for miles—before offering me a cup of tea from the tray that had just been brought into his private study. He had sent for me to join him. Sherlock was engaged in writing something—I believe it was chemical equations—and barely noticed as I was let out of our rooms. It was the first time we had been able to discuss the situation in private.  
  
He had first apologised to me for not seeking my counsel out sooner. He had been engaged in something important and delicate due to his employment and had only been home late at night. “I did not believe that intruding when I know that you are attempting to restore some sense of day and night with him would be beneficial to either of you,” he explained. He was correct; I nodded my appreciation.  
  
“He sleeps so little, but I do try to get him to lie down every night, beginning at eleven o’clock,” I explained. Of course, we could have no clock or watch in our rooms—I could picture all the gears scattered across the carpet—but there was a clock somewhere in the house that chimed out the hours. I had also made a point of opening and closing the curtains, keeping to regular times for meals, and other cues to help anchor him a bit. Mycroft’s own valet came in each morning—with two attendants—to shave both of us. Sherlock does not need to shave every morning (despite the thick curls on his head, he truly has very little success anywhere else) but I insisted that he at least try to sit still long enough for the man to attempt it. I admit to rather enjoying these morning ablutions and to growing rather spoiled during that time by not having to wield the blade myself.  
  
“Yes, I have been kept apprised of your efforts, Doctor Watson—and I truly appreciate everything you are doing for my brother. This must be a terrible strain on you.”  
  
“What I find most distressing is _his_ distress,” I surprised myself by admitting. “I have never seen him so completely baffled. He tries very hard, but no matter the effort, he cannot calm himself. It is so rare that Sherlock Holmes does not accomplish what he sets out to do that I believe he is utterly confounded. This adds to his anguish tenfold—his _awareness_ of his affliction. When he has those moments when he is apparently unaware that there is something wrong, he is actually quite jovial and companionable.”  
  
Mycroft nodded. “I hear he has been composing—or something like it.”  
  
“Yes. I have no idea if any of it is any good—it just seems sheets and sheets with lines and dots to me—but when he is engaged he seems to forget where he is.”  
  
“He might surprise us,” the elder brother commented. “I have always believed that geniuses of the arts—composers and painters and such—even if they are not seized with an illness such as my brother’s, when they are in the throes of creating, it is a similar state of mind.”  
  
“Sometimes when I am writing I lose all track of time,” I admitted, and he smiled at me.  
  
“I do enjoy your stories, Doctor,” he admitted. “Did you send your latest manuscript off?” (He was referring to the story I had distracted Sherlock with on the day of our “departure.”)  
  
“No. I left it behind.”  
  
“You should retrieve it; my man will see to it that it gets posted.”  
  
I blinked at this. Retrieve it? As in…  
  
“Yes, Doctor. You are free to come and go as you please—as long as it does not distress my brother overly.”  
  
“I see,” I mused. “I will make it clear that I am just popping out to retrieve some things that we need in the short term. I do not wish for him to believe anything except that these circumstances are temporary—that we only wish for him to get well—and then we can return to our lives.” And then that thought had caused me a flood of apprehension. “We _will_ be returning to our rooms—to our lives.”  
  
“We can only hope.”   
  
That was not a reassuring reply.  
  
“Tell me again how often this happens to him, and how long these fits last.”  
  
“These periods of mania of this intensity are rare for him, fortunately. I have not seen him this bad for quite some time.”  
  
“Why do you suppose he has been afflicted now?” I inquired. “What started him on this course?”  
  
“What had he been doing in the few days prior?”  
  
“He…” I paused and mentally inventoried his activities. “He hasn’t had a case in a while, and the last one was a bit mundane. I’ve been able to engage him in some minor scientific inquiries pertaining to my medical practice, but more and more often he’s seemed impatient with that. I regret to add that he has been indulging in his cocaine even more than usual, which, as it generally does, leads to impatience, sleepless nights—you know all this.”  
  
“Nothing new under the sun,” he agreed. “I was hoping against hope to discovering something new and definitive—but do not be concerned. It could very well be that there is nothing definitive beyond what you have mentioned. It is simply how my brother’s mind works. I suppose we can consider ourselves fortunate that this particular manifestation of his illness is an infrequent one, and each time that he was previously struck he did eventually recover.”  
  
I did not respond, but stared dismally into my empty tea cup. It was of a fine and extremely delicate china. We could not currently use such things with Sherlock. In our rooms we were served on earthenware and wooden plates and bowls and nothing on the menu required the use of anything more dangerous than a butter knife.  
  
The bowl of consommé that he thrust away from himself (and off the edge of the table) the day before had not, fortunately, stained the carpet overmuch.  
  
“I shall strike out for Baker Street tomorrow,” I stated. “But for now I do not like to leave him alone for long.”  
  
I rose and headed back to our rooms.  
  
*  
  
[This portion was written during their confinement.]  
  
He was agitated when I returned from speaking with Mycroft this afternoon, demanding to know if I was “spying” on him for his brother.  
  
“He and I have been discussing your condition, yes,” I admitted. I saw no reason for subterfuge, and in fact wished to avoid any appearance of it—he is sometimes so apprehensive.  
  
This admittance actually did, to my great surprise, seem to deflate him a bit, as he has apparently lost interest. He has returned to whatever it was he had been doing during my absence   
  
[The doctor seems to have been interrupted at this point and does not take up the thread of his narrative exactly where he left off.]  
  
I went back to our rooms today, to retrieve a few items and, more importantly, to have some respite. I left with the blessings (and carriage) of Mycroft, which he had arranged for after our talk yesterday.  
  
I do not wish to dwell upon Sherlock’s reaction to my leaving him this morning, even as I assured him it was for half a day at most. He was alternately angry, indifferent, and—and this made my chest ache—heartbroken. I told him over and over that I would be back in just a few hours, but he in his addled state could not seem to accept my promise. That he was even aware of where we were and where I was going was a bit miraculous; last night he thought we were aboard a ship to New York and wondered why we could not smell the sea air in our cabin.  
  
I had not thought to send a message to Mrs. Hudson warning her of my arrival, which was not very wise of me, for as I was using my key to gain entry I was greeted with the quite alarming sight of our intrepid landlady bearing down upon me with an extremely heavy umbrella.  
  
“Oh, Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed, dropping the weapon to her side, “I am that relieved that it is you. I am never sure who will appear on my doorstep.” I gave her what I hoped was a slightly apologetic smile and invited her to join me in foraging in our rooms for what we might need.  
  
As I listened to her describe the odd man who had come inquiring for Sherlock’s services a few days ago (which is what had prompted her wielding her “weapon”), I gazed around our rooms.  
  
We had left in a rush, of course, and even though Mrs. Hudson had tided and cleaned as she had promised (threatened), there is still that air of chaos that makes our rooms so homely. There on the mantel was one of my pipes (not my favourite, which I of course had taken with me). There was one of Sherlock’s magnifying glasses tucked across the tops of some books. He somehow miraculously left his table of chemicals and scientific equipment surprisingly clean, but there were a few odd objects left there regardless—one left-hand glove of dark green leather, the dried-up bits of some sort of shrubbery, and a letter from which a corner had been torn and, I recall, tested to confirm the presence of something-or-other that he proclaimed brilliant and devilish and led to him seizing his violin and playing me a merry few hours of tunes in triumph.  
  
My mad man.  
  
And then, as I knew she had been longing to do, Mrs. Hudson asked about Sherlock. I have, of course, been writing to her every day, but being able to discuss the situation face to face is so much easier.  
  
She does like receiving our letters even if, she admitted, Sherlock’s do not always make sense. She knows that he is desperately ill and that his brother and I are taking the best care of him that we can manage. Still, she does worry about him so, and then she was so very blunt.  
  
“Come sit down,” she rather commanded, taking a seat herself and looking quite pointedly at me. I sat and waited; I know that tone in her voice. “I am sorry to hear that Mr. Holmes is still so ill. But tell me now—how are _you,_ Doctor?”  
  
“I am… “ I began, hesitant.  
  
“Doctor Watson,” she repeated somewhat sharply, “I am not as delicate as you may think. Tell me honestly how you are doing.”  
  
And that was all it took. I admit it. I poured out my fears and sorrows and anxieties to her and she was so very patient and listened to every word and patted my hand.  
  
I do not quite understand her expression when I tell her such things as I shared—it seems sometimes that she knows what I am about to say before I say it. How can she possibly when I find myself saying things that I did not even know before now?  
  
I told her how concerned I am that Sherlock might injure himself during his fits. I explained how disheartening it is to watch him as he paces and shakes the handles of the locked doors and pounds his fists against the windows. I shared my despair at his lack of sleep and lack of appetite and the torrent of words that issue from him day and night. And finally I admitted to her how hurtful some of those words are.  
  
“I am certain he does not mean any of it,” she pointed out. “He has nothing but respect and affection for you. He is out of his head, as you have said. He would never say anything so hurtful otherwise.”  
  
I do understand that. She is a very wise woman.  
  
Finally, it was time to depart. I had collected some clothes and books and our correspondence; my chequebook, which fortunately was not locked in Sherlock’s desk as it sometimes is. The last item I claimed was his violin. As always, no matter his mood or temperament or even his sometime incoherence, he always treats the instrument with the utmost respect and—dare I say it—love? It is always—always—put away clean and with great care. I found that I could not resist taking it up out of its case in my hands, gingerly at first, and then with gratitude.  
  
It felt so very normal and real. I was glad to add it to my burden.  
  
And now we are here. I’ve been back for a few hours, and he is being so very sweet at the moment, allowing me time to write. He greeted me so eagerly upon my return that it quite touched me, and I admit that I greeted him likewise. Even those several hours apart, after being with him every moment for so many days, were rather harder than I had realised they would be.  
  
“You were at Baker Street?” he enquired as soon as I was let into our rooms by the attendant. “How is Mrs. Hudson?”  
  
I told him all that had transpired and, even as he paced, he listened keenly.  
  
“Can you come sit down for a moment?” I finally enquired, as easily as I could.  
  
He nodded and alighted on a chair. As he had been so agitated upon my departure, I was surprised and pleased with his attempt and praised him.  
  
“I’ve brought something for you,” I then began.  
  
He frowned at me.  
  
“More than the shirts and books you requested,” I added.  
  
“You found them? I know that I am not always terribly organised with my books in particular Mrs Hudson despairs of me but I was fairly sure that I left them somewhat tidy at least did she have that pipe repaired is she being cautious about opening the door has the greengrocer gotten a new boy the last one was awful he barely knew a turnip from an onion what is the weather I do not even know what day it is there will be trout for dinner but I refuse to touch sprouts you don’t intend to force me you never do did you bring a newspaper the youngest footman has a sweetheart Mycroft’s flue needs attending to in his bedroom I mean can you convince him that I could have a pen and ink I promise I won’t stab anyone I didn’t meantolasttime itwasanaccident Ilikeapencilforsomethingsbut don’tyoulikeapen youarethewriterdidthatlastpiececomeoutyetIratherlikedthatone—”  
  
At that point I laid a calming hand on his arm, and he shot me a grateful look and took a breath.  
  
“Sherlock,” I said quietly, “I’ve brought your violin.”  
  
“My violin?” he sprang up as quickly as he had alighted. “Where is it?”  
  
“Sherlock, you do know that you are not always yourself these days. I believe that it is safer if it remains with your brother until you are feeling up to it.”  
  
“But I desire it now, John. I have been composing you know I have been but I’ve gotten to a bit that I simply must play to work it all out and I wish to play it for you I wonder if Mycroft would like to hear it as well he has excellent taste in music hedoesnot gotoconcerts butIwishhewould heused to go toconcertsproperones not musichallperformances whichIknowisyour preferencedo youthinkIcouldhavemorepaperIsomehowuseditallup didyoubringpaperoranynewspapers itcouldevenbeyesterday’sIfindmyselfignorantofthedatewhyis that sometimesIdon’t care whatthe date is itdoesn’tmuchmattertome doesitmatter? Doesitmattertoyou? Ifitmatterstoyou I willtry harderto knowtheday youwere gonehalf theday it’snearlydark—”  
  
“Sherlock!” I interrupted. “Breathe.”   
  
He stared at me in surprise—not surprised at the interruption but apparently because it had not occurred to him that breathing was a necessity—and nodded emphatically. “Breathing,” he announced rather proudly.  
  
“Now, as we were discussing, I have brought your violin from Baker Street, but it is to remain safe with your brother until you are well enough to handle it.”  
  
“Yes, John. That is very thoughtful of you. Mycroft will take care of it until I am well enough in my current state I might very easily damage it…” He managed to stop himself from starting off on another ramble.  
  
“Yes, he will, and he as much as I and as much as you long for the day that you _are_ well enough…. Sherlock,” I admonished, “we know that it is not your fault that you are stricken. Your brother has told me that your mother was similarly afflicted and we do know that even this most terrible form of your affliction will eventually pass. We all must be patient.”  
  
“You _are_ very patient, John. I admire that and long to be as patient as you.”  
  
And with that I presented him with the books I had brought with me and he, seizing the atlas, has become involved in—I have no idea what is enthralling him, to be honest, but he is being (relatively) quiet and focused and I shan’t say a word to him.  
  
It won’t be difficult. His words of admiration have struck me in an odd way and I am a bit unsure of my voice.  
  
*  
  
[In this particular piece, the doctor’s handwriting scrawls across the sheets; clearly, he was greatly agitated when he wrote it.]  
  
It has been a hellish afternoon.  
  
It started out reasonably well. In fact, the past few days have been tolerable. Sherlock, apparently keen to earn access to his violin, has been making a more than admirable effort to calm himself. He sets himself small goals—to finish reading a chapter; to complete a letter to Mrs. Hudson—and I cannot praise him highly enough each time he succeeds. When he does not, I rather pointedly do not pass comment.  
  
Mycroft has not visited us every day since he became our host, but he has these past few, and he is equally encouraged by his brother’s efforts. He does not blink an eye at his more eccentric behaviours—as Sherlock has always done, he eschews proper dress in private unless encouraged, but he inquires as to Sherlock’s progress on his “composition” (meaning the various pieces of paper strewn across the floor, on which he has scribbled a haphazard collection of notes) and if he has read anything interesting in the newspapers.   
  
Today was not a bit different that I can determine. I am at a loss as to explain what occurred just a few hours ago.  
  
Mycroft had come in simultaneously with the tea tray, and Sherlock managed to sit with us long enough for his brother to pour him a cup. He did not actually take more than one sip, but he placed his cup back on the tray (which does not seem worth noting except that he has been much more likely to dash them to pieces or simply drop them instead of this nicety) before striding to the window and looking out longingly.  
  
“It’s frightfully windy today,” Mycroft noted, nodding at the lowering sun. “I am a bit concerned about that old tree coming down.”  
  
I have no idea what set him off—whether it was this comment or the setting sun or—it could have been anything—but the effect was horrifying.  
  
His speech was so rapid and his shouting so hoarse that I truly cannot record his words—neither Mycroft nor I could catch more than bits of what he spat out.  
  
That we were dodging books and cups and whatever else he could take up during this tirade was certainly no help.  
  
And then the most horrific of all—Sherlock attacked his brother. It was so unexpected that neither of us were able to prepare ourselves. He lunged forward, knocking the older man to the floor, his hands around his throat. I of course immediately leapt forward and attempted to separate them whilst shouting for assistance from the men I knew were posted in the corridor.  
  
I cannot—no, although I sat down to record all that occurred, I find that I cannot bear to think on it just now.  
  
*  
  
[The doctor’s handwriting is once again firm and clear.]  
  
It has been two days and I find myself finally at enough distance to pick up my pencil (I do admit to missing my pen) to explain all.  
  
Sherlock is locked in the next room, all by himself. I hope that he is not too cold. We cannot allow him a fire or even a candle at the moment; the risk of him setting fire to the curtains or bedclothes is too great. Everything has been removed from the room, in fact, except for the bed and a few books (we have decided that he cannot do much harm to himself or anyone else even if he throws them) and some paper and pencils. When it becomes dark he can neither read nor write, but there is nothing else to be done.  
  
He has been thus imprisoned since that awful evening.  
  
As I have already recorded, Sherlock had been doing relatively well, but then something set him off, and I do not know what hurt most—the insults he hurled or that I had to physically, with the assistance of two attendants, pull him away from his brother.  
  
He shouted himself hoarse and fought like the devil whilst they wrapped him in a large bedsheet. I am not ashamed to admit here in my private writing that this in particular brought tears to my eyes. For it was not in anger that he shouted and fought so.  
  
It was in fear.  
  
Ah. Here is Mycroft.  
  
*  
  
Another evening which I do not wish to remember.   
  
When Mycroft joined me earlier, he had been followed by the two largest attendants, and trailing behind them was the attendant we consider our friend—Henry.   
  
“Are we going in all together?” I asked. My chest felt tight and my hands were suddenly uncomfortably damp.  
  
“These two first—” he indicated the two large men with a slight incline of his head—“and then you. I am not certain how he will react to seeing me. You must ascertain his state of mind before I reveal myself to him. I do not wish to distress him.”  
  
I nodded in agreement and, stepping through the dressing room and up to the door that had been locked behind my friend two days earlier. The attendants had been using this door to bring him his meals, rather than the one opening directly to the corridor, in the hopes that if he did attempt to escape, the intervening doors and furniture of our “sitting room” would hopefully slow his progress enough that someone would have some chance of stopping him.  
  
I now first listened closely. I could not hear any alarming sounds. I knocked, making a point of imagining that I was in our rooms at Baker Street, knocking him up to see if he wanted breakfast or something equally mundane.  
  
“Holmes?” I called out. “I’d like to come in and talk to you. Is that all right?”  
  
“Watson? How many of those men do you have with you?”  
  
I am not, in retrospect, surprised that he knew that I was accompanied by someone other than his brother. My use of his surname, and his response using mine, indicated that with his usual lightning-quick reasoning, he had deduced the situation.  
  
“Two,” I answered truthfully.  
  
“Is Mycroft with you?” He sounded petulant now.  
  
“He is here, but he does not have to join us if you do not wish it.”  
  
“I… I don’t know. I cannot seem to gather my thoughts. How long have I been in here by myself?”  
  
“Let me come in and we can discuss the entire situation. All right? Do you promise not to try to leave?”  
  
There was a pause, as if he was seriously considering his options. “Yes, I promise,” he finally called out.  
  
I unlocked and opened the door.  
  
The sight that greeted me caused my throat to tighten and my eyes to prick with tears. My friend was but a shadow of his usual self.  
  
The room was terribly cold. He was dressed, if not neatly, at least as completely as he was able (he had no boots or collar, but otherwise was garbed against the chill, including stockings). As he had no coat, he had wrapped himself in a blanket from the bed.  
  
I entered, with the attendants close on my heels.  
  
He was skeletally thin—his scant appetite for so many consecutive days was the cause for that. I noted that on the small table by the fireplace, there were napkins that apparently held the food that had been offered to him each day. He had been permitted water in a wooden cup, but everything else was the sort of food he could eat without the aid of fork, spoon, or of course knife. There seemed to be quite a bit of toast and lemon sponge, his favourite, I realise now.  
  
He was dreadfully pale, making the shadows under his eyes and along the gaunt cheeks even more terrible. His dark hair was a riot of short curls; as I know he does, he must have been raking his fingers through it. He clutched at the blanket draped over his shoulders, but even the heavy wool could not obscure the fact that he was trembling.  
  
“Hullo, Watson,” he said quietly. “Brought your bulldogs, I see.”  
  
I nodded, unable—unwilling—to respond to this jab.  
  
“You won’t need them. I am quite calm, as you observe.”  
  
*  
  
It took a bit of negotiating, but eventually there we were—I seated on the bed, Mycroft in the chair by the fireplace (after a period of observation, he had allowed Henry to make up the fire, and the room was slowly warming), and Sherlock pacing between us, with brief detours towards the windows. True to his word, he had not approached either of the doors.  
  
The two large attendants had, reluctantly, left us, taking with them the remains of Sherlock’s uneaten meals, dirtied towels, and pot. I knew that there was someone posted outside the corridor door. Now Henry, with a look of strongest compassion in the direction of my friend, took a position directly outside the dressing room door.  
  
With a deep sigh, Mycroft began to speak.  
  
*  
  
The volley of words; the barrage of insults and pleadings and the recounting of warrantless fears—all of that is something that I do not wish to record. Perhaps after some time passes, I will have the strength.  
  
*  
  
[The following was written in pen.]  
  
Sherlock did not slow in his pacing as he spat vitriol at his brother; at me. He accused us of terrible things—we had kept him confined against his will. We had deprived him of contact with others; with knowledge of current events. We had finally stripped him of even the most basic of human comforts—fire for warmth; fire for light.  
  
Mycroft Holmes and I tried, in turn, to explain and defend our strict and cruel regimen. It was, not surprisingly, useless—primarily because it was all true. His accusations, so precisely articulated, made me ashamed, but even then I knew that we had done what needed to be done, and I tried in vain to explain that to him.  
  
I do recall, however, even as I pleaded with my friend to forgive me for keeping his violin away from him, realising that he was—marginally, at least—better. His speech, although rapid, had none of the jumbled and rambling nature that had coloured so much of our recent days. He did not stray from his subject; he remained focused and in fact repulsed our attempts to divert him. His movements, too, were closer to his usual high energy than the jittery, inelegant motion he had been displaying.  
  
Whether Mycroft noted this before I did, I do not know. He most certainly did not comment on it. And then, unfortunately, it became a moot point.  
  
The agitation returned. His speech was still somewhat normal, but his motions began to take on the ugly twitching that I was, at that point, so disheartened by. His long fingers began to pick and pull at the blanket he wore over his shoulders and his head to twitch back and forth in disturbing, bird-like motions—first to look at me, then at his brother, back and forth. His rate of breathing began to increase and despite the somewhat warmer temperature of the room and his exertions, he began to tremble as if chilled again.  
  
I believe the only reason that jumbled bits of sentences were not spilling from his lips at that moment was because his thoughts and movement were both so disordered that he could not actually form words.  
  
And then, with a heart-breaking wail of despair, he thrust himself at the windows, the blanket slipping from his slender body as he lifted his hands up and slammed them onto the glass.  
  
Through the glass.  
  
It was all rather chaotic after that. Henry and one of the attendants rushed in from the dressing room and a footman and the other attendant burst in from the corridor. I was already on my feet and at the window. Without hesitation, I grasped him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and pulling him bodily away from the broken glass.  
  
With their assistance, I got him to the bed and we rolled him in the sheet. I knew that I would have to tend to his injuries, but that would be impossible until he was somewhat calmer.  
  
Mycroft rose slowly from his chair. He was visibly distraught and horrified by his brother’s act of self-injury. He took a few steps toward the bed, on which I was now sitting, cradling my darling’s head in a pillow laid across my legs. I was speaking in a hushed tone in his ear, reassuring him (and myself) that it was all right. He would be well again soon and this would all be in the past. His brother approached us.  
  
“He must be moved into the other room and the window mended,” he stated, working to keep his voice steady. “Samuel, go!” The footman scurried out of the room, presumably to summon someone to attend to the broken glass.  
  
He was so slight. Henry managed to carry him into the next room by himself. He deposited him on the bed there (which I of course had been sleeping in those nights that I had been separated from Sherlock—it occurs to me as I write this now that we had been sharing the bed without issue; this was before we were what we are to each other now, and it was entirely innocent) (and rather uncomfortable—sharing with Sherlock in that state was what I imagine it would be like to share a bed with a windmill) (I had bruises).  
  
Once he was on the bed, I resumed my position, arranging myself to cradle his head. I believe he had shocked himself into silence, and any extraneous motion was translated into a continuous shuddering from top to toe. I spoke to him again, telling him that we understood that he was not in control of his faculties. That I would tend to his wounded hands when he was in sufficient control of himself that we could release him from the sheet. That I knew that he had not intended to injure himself; that he had struck the window in frustration.  
  
Unfortunately, he showed little sign of becoming still enough to treat him, and I was alarmed when I noted a bit of blood soaking through the sheet.  
  
“Doctor Watson,” Henry offered in a low voice, “does he require something to calm him?”  
  
I did not like dosing him, particularly when he was in such a state, but after resisting that path for so many days, at that point I saw no other choice. He at least did not fight the laudanum, and soon enough we were able to carefully unwrap him. Someone brought me a bowl of water and a clean cloth; bandages. I cleaned the injuries as carefully as I would bathe an infant and wrapped them well.  
  
He would not be playing the violin for a while longer, I reflected to myself.  
  
“Now, what about a clean shirt?” Henry asked, holding one out to show him.  
  
He nodded sluggishly. The motion was in such contrast to the odd twitches and jerks he had been exhibiting that it was disturbing. Languid now, he seemed a different person. I thought that I had longed for him to be still, but this was not stillness. This was stupor, and it was not a solution to his condition.  
  
“I will stay and keep watch here with you tonight,” Henry offered.  
  
I nodded. I saw no other way to manage him—I knew that I could not do so myself.  
  
*  
  
Under the influence of the drug, he became sluggish and malleable—Henry was able to get him into a clean vest and shirt, and wiped his face with a cloth. He put up no protest as I held a cup of tea to his lips—even his hands had not been heavily bandaged, he seemed now too weak to manage even that. And then—thankfully—he fell asleep.  
  
Forewarned is forearmed. I knew how the draught sometimes affected him. I had laid a towel on the bed and positioned a clean pot next to it. Upon observing my precautions, Mycroft, who had been standing stiffly, his back against the windows, while we tended to his brother, finally spoke up.  
  
“You seem to have him well in hand for the moment, Doctor Watson. I am sorry to say this, but I must take my leave of you now. There is urgent business which requires my attention. I will return after breakfast.”  
  
I believe that I simply shrugged. I was taking my friend’s pulse and did not appreciate the interruption.  
  
*  
  
[This portion was recorded in the midst of the event.]  
  
It is ten o’clock according to the bells of the unseen clock. Sherlock has been released from his imprisonment. He is injured, weak, and ill. There is a look in his eyes that I have never seen before.  
  
He is—thankfully—sleeping. I know that it is only the dreams of morphia—but he is resting both body and mind. He has been mostly still since we dosed him. He was sick once, as he so often is when under the influence of laudanum, but has had so little to eat or even drink that he brought up little.  
  
I am appreciating our faithful servant Henry’s attendance. He is calm, thoughtful, and efficient. He seems not the least bit bothered by any of the more unsavoury aspects of our situation—Sherlock is in great need of a bath, and I realise now as I write that he did not even have his tooth-brush with him in his exile. The discomfort this must be causing the fastidious man is maddening.  
  
A servant brought up a tray a while ago, with supper for myself and Henry. I ate in order to sustain myself and now, although it was just a few hours past, I do not recall what it was that I consumed. I have sent instructions back to the kitchen—he will need a nourishing but bland breakfast.  
  
I know that I should try to sleep a bit. Henry has already indicated that he will keep watch. He has claimed one of the side chairs by the fire. It is not comfortable enough that he risks falling asleep, he explained. He will also keep the fire lively and the candles lit. I am so exhausted that I am certain that the light will not keep me awake.  
  
I wonder if I should stretch out on the settee or the bed. I prefer the bed, of course, so I can easily check on my friend during the night. Yes, that is what I will do, and I will encourage our faithful attendant to wake me halfway through the night so that I can relieve him and he might sleep a bit as well.  
  
*  
  
We have had another dreadful conversation just now—Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock, and I.  
  
I managed perhaps three hours of sleep last night, and that, combined with the battle we have just fought—for that is what it was—has made my head ache. I do not wish to dwell on the content of our discussion just now.   
  
I am alone in our sitting room. Sherlock has retreated to the bedroom—the window now repaired—and has banned me from entering. His anger and despair frighten me, but I do not wish to intrude. He is entitled to his privacy and his thoughts.  
  
He has a great deal to think about, as do I.  
  
He is pacing and muttering to himself, but does not seem inclined towards the violence we experienced yesterday. I will stretch out on the bed in here and perhaps escape to my own dreams for a while.  
  
*  
  
I have managed to sleep a bit and had some lunch. I called out to my friend and, although he did not open the door, his voice politely declining to join me for a meal was reassuring. I know that the door is not locked, but I respect that it is closed and do not wish to disturb him further.  
  
While it is fresh, I will record what occurred this morning.  
  
True to his word, Mycroft entered our room after we had breakfasted. I cannot express the relief I experienced watching Sherlock eat. He did not consume a great amount, but he did manage some porridge. Despite the bandages on his hands, he was able to manage a spoon. He was moving so very slowly, still under the influence of the awful drug, and was not speaking much.  
  
That did not last.  
  
“Mycroft,” he greeted his brother. He had looked up, examining him intently when he arrived, but now he dropped his eyes to his bandaged hands as they rested on his legs. He was sitting—not pacing or thrashing about. Such a simple, commonplace thing—and I did not realise until I write about it now—something which means so much.  
  
“Sherlock,” he responded. “Doctor Watson.”  
  
I nodded.   
  
“I will not waste any time with niceties,” the elder brother announced, seating himself on one of the side chairs. As if in response to this, Sherlock thrust himself up from the settee and began his too-familiar pacing. I believe that I tried to hide my dismay at this. I doubt that I succeeded.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said—an odd, somewhat hollow tone to his voice, “I am sure that you are aware that your behaviour during this current fit has been the most extreme expression of your illness to date.”  
  
“That’s getting right to it,” I commented a bit bitterly.  
  
“We—none of us—can pretend that it is anything else,” he responded. “This is not only the worst that you have seen my brother, but the worst that I have ever observed. He has had longer periods of mania, but never have they been so…” and I was astounded when he hesitated, “violent.”  
  
I wanted to protest on my friend’s behalf, but of course I could not—because it was true. I have not yet recorded the whole of our story, but since the first onset of this seizure, there have been numerous instances of violence towards Mycroft, towards the attendants and servants, towards myself, and, sadly, towards himself.  
  
Sherlock did not reply. He did not acknowledge in any way that he was even listening; he had wandered over to where I had stacked the bits of his composition and was looking down at them with an expression on his face that I cannot quite describe.  
  
“Sherlock, are you listening?” Mycroft demanded, rather predictably.  
  
“Why should I?” he snarled. I winced at his tone. He suddenly turned and began pacing, the papers he had been examining forgotten. I am not certain, but I believe I made a discouraged noise in my throat as he resumed his incessant motion. I had hoped—up until that moment—that he had fallen as low as he was ever going last evening and was truly headed towards wellness.  
  
“Because I am discussing your future,” his brother replied.  
  
“So discuss it,” he said coldly. As he paced, he glanced out the windows several times—and I admit to becoming more alarmed with each look. I could see that his brother was equally apprehensive of his actions—the horror of the night before was still so present in both of our minds—and in the bandages on Sherlock’s hands. He startled me by suddenly hissing, “You have never requested my input before; why should I think that you desire it now?”  
  
There was a flash—the briefest glimpse—of anger on the elder brother’s face. “Very well,” he said slowly. “Sherlock, you are aware that your infirmity has been more apparent lately. You have been fortunate in the ministrations of the doctor here, but you must admit that both the mania and the melancholia has been, of late, quite intense. You have been rather ‘flat out’, if you will excuse the phrase, more often than in the past.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. I felt ill; my breakfast sitting heavily. Was this true? I had not known him long enough; had not been his doctor and friend long enough, to fairly compare his recent incapacitation to his earlier state.  
  
“Well? Do you agree with my assessment?” his brother pursued.  
  
He turned and looked keenly at his brother, and I have rarely seen such anger in him. “If I agree, what will happen?” he asked—rather cleverly, now that I consider it.  
  
“Do you agree that you have no power over these fits?”  
  
“You know that I do not…” his voice broke and my heart broke with it. The brilliant and courageous Sherlock Holmes admitting that he could not control his own body and mind  
  
[The doctor displays a rare failing in his usually perfect syntax; he leaves this thought unfinished.]  
  
“No control whatsoever, even though I do know how hard you try.” This surprised me; was the elder brother attempting to soften the blow of his words?  
  
“You acknowledge that I do _try,_ ” was the sharp retort.  
  
“I do. The doctor here knows that you do. Even your landlady knows. But we also know that you have, so far, failed to master yourself for more than a few moments during any of these fits.”  
  
“I always recover eventually,” he pointed out, his voice rising slightly.  
  
“Eventually. But, dear brother, you have to admit that it becomes more and more difficult for you to recover yourself.”  
  
“But I always do!” He was shouting now, and I could see that even in their bandages his hands were now clenched into fists.  
  
“But what if you should not?”  
  
I could not believe what I had heard. I feel cold still now—as if someone has walked over my grave.  
  
Sherlock took a few unsteady steps—he was at least moving away from the windows. He was pale—so horribly pale—and I drew myself up, ready to spring off the settee if he showed signs of faltering further.  
  
“I said, what if you should not?” his brother repeated coldly.  
  
My dear friend turned and glared at his brother, and the look was the most terrible thing I have ever seen. I am trembling, even now. I, who have run into enemy gunfire, am trembling. Why does this affect me so? Why does the possible fate of this man—my dear friend—make me so unsteady; so unsure?  
  
I have answered my own question.  
  
Sherlock Holmes is a great man. He is the most intelligent, brave, and stalwart man I have ever known.  
  
But he is also my dear friend and I cannot bear to think of life without him—and at this juncture, that is a distinct possibility.  
  
“What do you mean, ‘if I should not’ recover?”  
  
“Sherlock, you know what happened to our mother—”  
  
“Stop talking about her!”  
  
“I am afraid that I cannot,” Mycroft sighed heavily. “You forget that I have a longer memory of her than you. You are lacking several years of observation of her behaviour which I possess.”  
  
“So?”  
  
“So I aware, more than you, of the progression of her illness.” And then the stern, stiff façade broke. “Sherlock,” he begged, “she was so different before you were born. She had moments of… unsteadiness… but far more times of calmness. Of happiness.”  
  
“And then I was born and ruined it all.”  
  
“That was not my point.”  
  
“Then what is?” he demanded, his tone cruel and vicious.  
  
His brother sat up even straighter (which I did not think possible). “My point is this: our mother was about your age when she began to grow increasingly erratic in her behaviour. Each fit was more intense and lasted longer than the one before. And then it became… untenable.”  
  
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.  
  
“Sherlock, I do not need to remind you of our mother’s fate.”  
  
I cannot describe the noise that issued from my dear friend’s throat. It was anguish and sorrow. It was anger and frustration. I rose and took the few steps I needed to be in front of him. I took his injured hands in mine and looked into his eyes. “Sherlock?” I said quietly. He shook his head, unable to speak.  
  
His brother’s voice was rough with emotion. His next words seemed to cause him physical pain. “Sherlock, you know what I had to do with our mother. And as abhorrent an idea as it is, you know that I will have no choice. If you do not show signs of improvement, I will have no choice but to commit you to a lunatic asylum.”  
  
I gasped and tightened my hold on my friend’s hands, but he pulled them away.  
  
“You wouldn’t,” he stated flatly. His statement was directed at his brother, but he continued to look at me, and I could see that the words had struck terror into him.  
  
“I will, and you know that I will. You are at great risk of doing something reckless and dangerous, and if that is the only way that I can prevent you from injuring yourself, then that is what I will do.”  
  
“John,” he responded, looking into my eyes, “you wouldn’t let him do that, would you? Mycroft, John would not allow you to do so.” He sounded haughty and self-assured, but his expression was stricken.  
  
How could I respond to this? I can ponder this now, but in the midst of our discussion, I admit that I responded by instinct, and I am not proud of my answer. “I’m afraid I would,” I admitted.  
  
“What? Why would you do such a thing?” He glared at me in disbelief and fury. “How could you? I have no need of such... extreme measures.”  
  
“You have a great need, brother mine,” Mycroft supplied sadly. “I am afraid that our mother’s affliction has cursed you far more than we realised. I did not have any other recourse but to send her to that asylum, and if you persist in your current activity I will have no choice but to have you placed in one as well.”  
  
Sherlock’s knees buckled and I was grateful that I was standing so close; I caught him and guided him to the bed, seating him and, not even thinking about it, crouched in front of him. I grasped his hands in mine and pulled them onto his lap.  
  
“You wouldn’t. You would not. You would not send me… there. Please, Mycroft. No. Please don’t send me there. Please don’t send me away. I’ll behave. I promise.” His anguish and terror were horrible to witness.  
  
Mycroft’s sigh was one of the saddest things I have ever heard. “I know that you promise. I know that you wish to—intend to—behave. I know that the idea of going to one of those places is abhorrent to you. It is abhorrent to me as well. But you must understand that I only wish to keep you safe.”  
  
“I am safe!”  
  
“You _currently_ are, but only because I have the means to isolate and have you watched day and night. Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this—not even able to offer you a candle or a fire or proper dishes? Do you think that in your current state you could return to your rooms? Your doctor does as much as he can, but he must sleep sometimes, and so must Mrs. Hudson, and even if you do not intend it you are so very prone to injuring yourself or… well, you know the dangers. And I cannot allow that.”  
  
“But I want…”  
  
“If anything happened to you, my dearest brother, I would have failed. I promised our mother and our father that I would take care of you, and if I failed, I would be heartbroken.”  
  
Sherlock frowned as he considered this. I could feel him under my hands, restless and trembling. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, speaking more slowly than he had been, “it does not matter what you promised Mother and Father. It is my decision and the responsibility falls on my shoulders alone.”  
  
“Ordinarily, yes,” I intervened, “but the entire reason that we are having this conversation now is because you are not making good decisions.”  
  
“I am _trying!_ ” he cried out.  
  
“I know you are,” I soothed. “And I certainly do not wish for you to go to one of those places—”  
  
“You mean an asylum?” he spit out bitterly. “Are you unwilling to even say the word?”  
  
I ignored his jab. “Yes. Your brother is correct. I do not know if I can always keep you safe. I try to contain you when I must, but you are too clever for me by far and highly adept at escaping my restraints, such as they are. I do not wish to employ anything more extreme, such as we are now, but, Sherlock, if it is to keep you safe, I will do it.”  
  
“Do what? Say it.”  
  
I took a deep breath. He was forcing me—quite deliberately—to state what I did not want to face. But I was an ex-army captain and I could do this. “I would put you in an asylum and I would encourage them to use restraints, and locked doors, and not to be tricked by your talented tongue—and it would all be for you, my friend. It would all be to keep you safe. That is all I desire, Sherlock. I wish for you to be safe, and if I must be cruel to be kind, so be it.”  
  
We sat for a long time after that; my legs cramped a bit and I finally shifted from my position crouched in front of him. I rose stiffly and sat next to him on the bed. All three of us remained in silence for a few moments.  
  
“Your hands are in need of re-bandaging,” I finally said. “Will you allow me?”  
  
He nodded and I rose to fetch what I required. I glanced over at Mycroft Holmes. He had remained seated, but it alarmed me to note that he had sunk his head into his hands.  
  
I carefully unwrapped his hands, teasing the cloth, stiff with dried blood, away from his damaged fingers. I wiped them and wrapped them in clean bandages. “Does it hurt a great deal?” I asked.  
  
“It is not overly painful,” he replied. I could tell that he was struggling to keep his voice firm and even.  
  
“We must keep the injuries clean,” I instructed.  
  
He examined me carefully at this. “You said ‘we,’” he pointed out.  
  
“Yes?” I did not understand his point.  
  
“If my brother sends me away, there is no ‘we’.”   
  
“I know,” I managed to respond. The words hurt me as much as the bullets that had struck me during my service.  
  
Mycroft rose. “I cannot remain any longer,” he explained. “Urgent business requires my attention.”  
  
“Doesn’t it always?” Sherlock snarled. “When it is complete, will you be making the arrangements?”  
  
I watched as the elder brother walked slowly past us and to the door. He seemed to have aged ten years in our short time together. He knocked at the door to be released. Whoever was in the corridor—I presumed it was one of the attendants—unlocked and cautiously opened it. Mycroft paused and turned back to us, and his words astonished both of us.  
  
“No, I will not be making any arrangements beyond ensuring that you remain here in my home until you are recovered enough to go home. We will discuss it further upon my return.” He took a deep breath. “Sherlock, I only wish for you to be safe, and if it is possible, to be well.”  
  
He slipped out the door and I heard the key turn in the lock once more.  
  
That was when Sherlock withdrew to the other room, and I was left alone.  
  
*  
  
Can I be somewhat optimistic? After the horrible conversation with Mycroft Holmes this morning, I have given Sherlock privacy—and insisted that the servants and attendants do the same—but now a footman has brought a tray with tea and cakes, and I have determined that I need to check on him. I want to see his face and examine his injuries. I want to try to get him to eat something.  
  
*  
  
I am astonished. I am disbelieving. I am joyous.  
  
I believe that Sherlock has turned a corner and is truly recovering.  
  
When the tea tray arrived, I had knocked gently on the door that separated us and called out, “Sherlock? Would you care for some tea?” When he did not respond, I felt myself become tense and anxious. Was he well? I reached towards the door handle—and he startled me when he opened it.  
  
“Is there cake?” he asked, and I was not certain if I wished to laugh or to cry—for he spoke in his old voice, and it was steady and sensible and calm.  
  
“Yes, of course there is cake,” I replied instead, fighting to keep my own voice light.  
  
We had tea and cake and although he is clearly not wholly himself yet—the movements of his eyes as they dart about the room and the trembling of his hands betray him as still being under the influence of his horrid illness—he seemed so much more like his old self than I had witnessed in—how long have we been in his brother’s house?  
  
When we had finished, I suggested a bath and fresh clothing, and he had nodded in wordless agreement. I knocked on the door to the corridor to have the tray taken away and to see who was in the corridor. I had hoped to see Henry, but after his overnight vigil with us, I knew that he was in need of respite. The attendant there—Patrick—took the tray and nodded as I explained my intent. I made it clear that I would oversee this activity myself.  
  
“We must discuss this with Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured as I operated the taps. “Do you think it terribly expensive?” He was referring, of course, to the miraculous tap that, when turned, released hot water into the bathtub.  
  
“Probably, but it seems such a labour-saving convenience,” I commented as I tested the water, adjusting the taps (and feeling quite the expert) so the water would be comfortable. “She should not be hauling hot water up the stairs for us any longer. We shall discuss it with her together. Now, all of that off.”  
  
I assisted him in divesting himself of his soiled clothing. I also removed the bandages from his hands. “I will re-wrap these when you are warm and dry,” I commented. “Now, in you go.” I steadied him as he stepped over the rolled edge of the bathtub and sat with a grateful sigh in the warm water. I let him soak for a bit, then took up a flannel and soap and began with gentle ablutions to cleanse his skin. He allowed me this, and then startled me by grasping my wrist.  
  
“This is not… usual, is it?” he demanded. “For friends?”  
  
“No,” I replied calmly, resuming my actions. “Does it disturb you?”  
  
He considered this as he observed my hand moving the flannel across his pale skin. “No,” he finally replied. He pondered a bit longer before adding, “Is it acceptable?” he now wondered. “As my doctor?”  
  
“Yes, it is acceptable as your doctor,” I assured him. “Now, when we are done, will you make me happy and lie down for a while?”  
  
He did and I was.  
  
*  
  
Dinner arrived at seven o’clock and with it, the elder brother. I was rather surprised at his appearance, but he explained that his urgent business being accomplished, he had wished to continue our conversation. I became rather tense at this, as did my friend.  
  
“Please do not be alarmed,” Mycroft instructed, holding his hand up. “Despite my absorption in my responsibilities, I have been considering what I stated earlier, and I wish to revise my words.”  
  
Sherlock was so startled that he nearly dropped his fork. “Did I hear that correctly, John?” he managed. “Did my brother just say that he changed his mind about something?”  
  
“He did,” I supplied, intrigued as much at the interaction of the two brothers as by whatever it was that Mycroft had reconsidered. “Should I fetch pen and paper and record this moment for posterity?”  
  
I was somewhat astounded at the usually stalwart man’s reaction to this light teasing. He hesitated—I have never known Mycroft Holmes to hesitate. But we both kept quiet and he almost instantly recovered his usual haughty attitude and expression.  
  
“Very amusing, Doctor,” he drawled. “I mean to get right to it. Sherlock, as you can imagine, I have been considering everything that has occurred under my roof quite seriously.”  
  
We both nodded; hadn’t we all?  
  
“And I believe that I might have made an error in judgement regarding any future plans for your safety.”  
  
Sherlock, who had just speared a Brussel sprout, froze, his fork halfway to his lips. As one might do when not desiring to frighten a wild animal, he remained still, his eyes wide.  
  
“Your plans…?” I encouraged.  
  
“Yes. I believe that I was rather too hasty when I said that I would send my brother to an asylum.”  
  
It was my turn to be struck still and dumb.  
  
“As has been proven this past fortnight, even if my brother should be stricken as horribly as our poor mother was in her later years, I have the means to manage him here, in our family home. There might be some improvements that would need to be made to ensure his safety, but those could be easily accomplished should they become necessary.”  
  
“Do you mean that?” I managed. “You would have him tended here and not sent to one of those awful places?”  
  
“Yes.” He looked as if he was going to continue, but he abruptly dropped his eyes to his plate and we sat in silence and stillness for several moments. Finally, he pierced a bit of the fish that lay on his plate and swirled it around. “I only wish that I could have offered the same when our mother was so ill, but I was not yet in a position to do so.”  
  
“He means that Father was still alive and would not allow him.”  
  
“Yes, that is precisely what I mean. But now—we have done it, have we not? Even with a few unfortunate… incidents, between my servants, the hired attendants, and of course the fine doctor here, for the most part it has been mostly manageable.”  
  
“Do you promise?” Sherlock sounded very young.  
  
“I do. I promise you as I promised our parents that I will take care of you to the best of my ability, and now I promise that I will not send you away. Those rooms are yours—and you could visit for social reasons on occasion, you know (his voice took on his usual stern and condescending tone at this)—but particularly whenever you need more care than your doctor and your landlady can offer on their own.”  
  
And then, as if the emotions being expressed were suddenly too much—too unseemly and uncivilised and messy, perhaps—Mycroft began to rather determinedly eat his dinner. Subject closed.  
  
After a few seconds, Sherlock and I did the same.  
  
It is now ten o’clock and—here is his warm milk. I believe that I will encourage him to put on nightclothes and see if he will lie down with me in an hour. The lightness of the mood in our rooms is such a welcome change.  
  
*  
  
This is the last that I will write here in what has been, to be honest, our prison. Sherlock’s recovery has been steady for the past three days. Since that remarkable dinner, he has managed to maintain a somewhat usual schedule—meals and sleep and examining the newspapers. He and I have even taken a few walks out in the grounds—we had an attendant with us still, of course, but there has been no need for any sort of intervention. So we are finally, truly, headed home.  
  
Last evening was the most remarkable in that it was completely not remarkable. We dined with Mycroft Holmes. We did not dress, as he was not receiving anyone but ourselves and so did not see reason in it, but we did tidy ourselves and at the appropriate hour walked out into the corridor through the now-unlocked door and descended to the fine dining room. Sherlock looked handsome and well. He ate a normal dinner and—I am still somewhat astounded—was allowed a knife with which to cut into the roast.  
  
He is still pale, but he is always pale, and the injuries to his hands are, although still apparent (I have removed the bandaging but insist that he allow me to examine the wounds twice daily), healing.  
  
After dinner, the three of us retired to the billiards room. It surprises me that Mycroft Holmes has a room so equipped, but when I mentioned it, Sherlock reminded me that the house had been in the family for generations and that their father was of a more outgoing nature than either of them. I enjoyed the cigar the elder brother offered me, and encouraged my friend to indulge as well, and they watched as I took a few practice strokes on the fine table.  
  
“You enjoy playing,” Sherlock remarked, eyeing me keenly. “You should make arrangements to do so on occasion. I am afraid that keeping my company has become rather dull.”  
  
“Perhaps I will,” I agreed.  
  
We ascended to our rooms shortly before ten o’clock, and although he is well on the road to recovery, I did insist that he have his milk and then encouraged him to change his clothes and ready himself for sleep. He asked me something at that point that even now I hesitate to record, but as it is only my eyes that will ever see these sheets, I will put this down.  
  
“Which bed shall you have?” he queried. His voice was quiet and—dare I say it—almost timid.  
  
I was momentarily baffled. Whatever did he mean? And then—I am a dullard at times—it came to me.  
  
“You mean to sleep on your own?” I demanded. I admit it here—I was, once realisation struck, a bit put out. We have been sharing for so many nights that it had not occurred to me that he might wish to sleep in his own bed.  
  
And as I write this, it occurs to me that—well, if I write here as a true and accurate record of this episode in our lives, I must be true to myself. I have grown so accustomed to stretching out with him in these fine rooms, on the fine bedclothes, that I have not once considered that it would [the doctor has lined out ‘would’] should end. The only nights we have been apart were the two when he was at his lowest and most violent, and I hated every minute of the long, dark hours.  
  
I must be overly tired from the strain. I am fanciful and foolish. I must desist.  
  
He indicated that yes, he meant to sleep on his own, so I indicated that he should have what we have been considering the “bedroom” and I would stay in our “sitting room.”  
  
And so we did and rose and dressed and descended to the morning room and a full breakfast, and now I write these last few words as Sherlock packs up our things (he has insisted on taking care of my items as well as his own; as he put it, it is the least he can do after everything I have done for him).  
  
Oh, I realise now as I cast my eyes over this—I have forgotten to note the most important portion of last evening. How could I do that? Perhaps because at the time I was so overcome with emotion that I was fairly embarrassed for myself afterwards.  
  
For Sherlock, after enjoying his cigar and a small glass of sherry, played his violin.  
  



End file.
